


Her Reichenbach Hero

by shamingjohnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt, Eye Contact, F/M, Japanese Rope Bondage, Lab Sex, M/M, Multi, Public Masturbation, Reichenbach, Sexual Frustration, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:29:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamingjohnlock/pseuds/shamingjohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spurned by Sherlock once again, Molly takes matters into her own hands and figures out that sometimes shame runs deeper than her fingers can reach... but that won’t stop her from trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Reichenbach Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reichentop](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Reichentop).



Molly Hooper didn’t count. She had felt this way for ages, but since the Christmas party, it burned her more than usual to think of Sherlock. It hurt to think of the night she waited at the foot of the stairs while he entertained guests above, playing his violin. She imagined his deft fingers pressing firmly on the strings and working the bow.

That night, when he had finished and Mrs. Hudson praised him loudly, she remained still for a few moments to wipe away a tear with shaky hands, still hidden from sight. She listened while Sherlock fumbled conversation with one of John’s girlfriends, and chose a moment when he was delivering one of his scathing and familiar insults to shuffle up the stairs. Ever observant, Sherlock noticed her anyway.

_He will not ruin this_ , she thought. _He simply can’t_.

The moment began as she had rehearsed so many times. She ran through each step in her mind to ensure she would forget nothing. First, she set down the gifts she had brought, in bags slung over each arm. Then, she counted three beats in her mind.

Prepared as could be, Molly slipped off her coat and scarf, revealing a tight, black dress with rhinestone accents trimming the décolletage that her normally straight, tied back hair, fell over in curls. She floundered through small talk with the guests while revealing as much breast topography as she could, her gaze fixed on Sherlock. It was impossible not to with the way his plum shirt clung to his chest beneath his jacket, struggling against the buttons.

And as usual, she remained fixed on him while he insulted her, which he always did, afterwards casually lobbing her present on the couch to attend to less boring business. She bit her lip and watched his dark curls spring in time with his step as he retreated to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him hard. What Sherlock didn’t know was he had tossed aside a carefully wrapped key to her own flat. Or maybe he did know. He noticed everything. She had worn a silver bow in hopes that Sherlock would deduce, and rightly so, that she was to be his gift.

***

Molly Hooper didn’t count, and she knew it by now. Months had passed since the incident—well, both incidents, really. _I have such poor taste in men_ , she thought to herself as she assisted Sherlock in the lab with the business of catching a man that had taken her on a few dates and turned out to be what he referred to as a consulting criminal. She thought of him often, but as Jim from IT. Whether he was gay or not, they had watched Glee together, and he was so good with her cat, Toby.

“I.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled from his throat in the slow way that always caught her attention. He hovered over the microscope. “Owe.” Molly watched his mouth as he mumbled to himself and sound vibrated over her. “You.” The way his lips curved so sharply always took her by surprise. She became very aware that she wasn’t wearing any lipstick.

“Wha—?” Molly began to ask, knowing already it was a mistake. John was away for a few moments, toiling with care at the other end of the lab to play his part in the search for Jim, and wouldn’t be there to rescue her from Sherlock’s inevitably cruel reply as he always did when he was around.

But Sherlock dismissed her with another “thank you, John” while she stumbled for words. She would have sworn then and there that something was bothering him—his eyes curved into a mix of crossness and dread—but chose not to argue. Instead, she left for crisps, cursing herself under her breath for stammering like a fool. She barely heard John shuffle over to Sherlock as she was leaving, focusing instead on the heavy sound of her own feet getting her as far away from Sherlock as she could stand to be.

“Such an arse,” she whispered as soon as the door to the lab shut behind her. Each footstep towards the vending machine couldn’t come fast enough, but she was still unsatisfied when she reached it. “Why do I turn tart for him like this,” she said, obviously perturbed and breathing heavily while she pushed in the combination for a bag of Walkers. She chose Worcester Sauce because the bag matched her favorite shirt of Sherlock’s. _He looks so good in purple_ , she thought, _but that black shirt today isn’t so bad either_.

While she walked softly back to the lab, she relished the memory of Sherlock’s creamy skin juxtaposed against the darkness of his shirt. Oh, how she would or wouldn’t trace her fingers over his long neck, despite his cruelty. _Perhaps he's just as cruel in the bedroom_ , she thought, cheeks immediately aflame.

She had never told anyone her secret; Molly barely admitted it to herself while home alone, always searching for new images to quicken her desire. Deep down, she longed for Sherlock to show up at her door with an armful of woven jute. With as much information as he had stored in his head, surely he would be a master of _kinbaku_. She would gladly be his canvas while he bound and rigged her with the rope, stretching her vulnerable but working his fingers with care. Truly, she would let him splay her out in any way he saw fit to fulfill his vision, on the ground or even in the air, naked and hovering over him like a bird.

“You are at work, Molly Hooper,” she reminded herself aloud with the quietness of a mouse. At some point she unconsciously stopped walking towards the lab door, instead stopping to lean against the hallway wall. She had dropped her crisps along the way. It didn’t matter. Sherlock remained in her head, beginning the _Ushiro Takatekote Shibari_. He would first gather her up in his long arms, pressing against her slightly. She could almost feel his breath. As Molly imagined it, he would be hard already, composed but twitching with the pleasure of guiding her arms behind her back, one over the other, and securing the knots. Perhaps this position was telling—she couldn’t touch him any more bound within it than she could now. Either way, in need of immediate release, she eyed the loo door just across the hall before looking away, embarrassed again.

Molly heard a loud crash that brought her back to the present. It rang with the combined sounds of metal and glass colliding with the floor. She gathered herself and hurried the remaining length of the hallway back to the lab, certain the noise had something to do with Sherlock.

“S-Sherlock!” She heard John’s voice, closer now that she had almost made it to the door. “Sherlock, not here!”

Molly paused at the lab door, confused, and peeked in through the glass window. Why is John shouting? It sounded almost like a plea.  
There on the table where only a few minutes before stood a microscope, test tubes, and slides, Sherlock was fucking John with the loud intensity of a man about to die. Or at least, that’s what it looked like from Molly’s perspective. Sherlock’s back was to her, and he was fully clothed, with John’s legs wrapped above his hips. As she had always suspected, he moved selfishly, like a wildfire spreading.

Molly cried out softly against the glass window of the lab door, fogging it with her breath. She felt hot, and wanted this so badly for herself, broken under the thought. Her face almost snarled, but her eyes were much too sad for simple jealousy. She imagined Sherlock’s eyes gazing into John’s, flashing colors of every gem in the spectrum between turquoise and peridot. The color shifted with his mood, she knew, and she struggled with the tension of what Sherlock must be feeling, cock pounding deep into John, over and over.

Her hand rested on the door as she listened to the crescendo of their breathing and muffled grunting. She craved a hint of skin, just an inch of lowered trouser, but found no reprieve. She could always find the silhouette of Sherlock’s body beneath his clothing, as she usually did while lost in the daydreams that love conjures up, but this was different. She rested against the door, invisible to them while they consumed each other, unable to focus on any of his curves because he moved so bloody fast on the other side of the glass. Despite their clothing, this was free, unrestrained.

When Molly thought that Sherlock could push her no further, he always found a way, whether it was a piercing look, or a new level of crass response. Here too, he pushed her, by pulling the rest of John up close to his face, almost feverishly, and continuing his thrusts. It occurred to her that Sherlock must have been taking in John’s face with the same mad look she had when she looked at him. This time, jealousy did creep in, just in time for her to trace Sherlock’s glorious shoulder with her eyes and cross gazes with John Watson.

John appeared startled, yet did nothing but wince at the pleasure on his side of the glass. My worst fear is Sherlock noticing me now, Molly thought, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the expression on John’s face. John, too, watched her. Something about his look betrayed a different sort of pleasure. As if confirming her suspicion, John wrapped himself even more tightly around Sherlock, pulling at his curls to expose the curve of Sherlock’s neck. Molly could see him more clearly now, but John’s eyes were clenched tight, not meeting her desperate ones. _My God, he wants me to see_.

Molly didn’t realize she was touching herself at first. With one hand pressed firmly against the door, almost clawing at it to get to Sherlock, the other had made its way into her loose-fitting jeans. She realized this as John met her eyes again, and held the look. It stirred something inside of her, as if that look opened the door and closed the space between her and Sherlock. Work be damned, Molly would have Sherlock now, even if through John. The tension was too much to bear, and John seemed to know it, too, rocking up and down with Sherlock continuing to push against his insides.

In her mind, Molly greedily took the place of John. Now, it was her clinging to him on the lab table, and he worked her with the same methodical precision that he would a case. She didn’t mind the broken glass or damaged equipment one bit. She finally had him now, could smell his smell, and saw what John saw, fixing her mind on the arcs of his cheekbones and not only the brilliant color that was Sherlock’s eyes, but the darkness at their center. They shared the mad look as they both came, her moaning with abandon as Sherlock pushed his cock up into her, spending his last. She quivered and pulsed against him as he rested himself there.

Her legs weak, she pressed more of herself against the glass and took another deep breath, letting her orgasm wash over the rest of her. Suddenly, she heard the familiar rumble of Sherlock’s voice.

“You can open the door now, Molly Hooper.”


End file.
